Affliction
by JeniOctavia Ramsey
Summary: Dr.Willowes was living 'the good life',reaping the benefits of two best selling psychiatric books and a booming health practice.When he decides his new book needs more exciting material,he soon finds out that some matters of the mind are best left alone.
1. Prologue

((Hi there! JeniOctavia here. I needed to put a note on this thing. This story isn't mine, its my friend Joseph's, who's asked me to host this here. Don't ask his reasons, he just wanted me to. In any case, neither of us own any rights what so ever to Silent Hill, but he does write some kick ass fanfiction for it. And he loves reviews! Thanks! JO))

Silent Hill: Affliction.

Prologue:

"Good morning, Mr. Willowes. I see you've made quite a mess today.." Said the tall, mildly muscular figure of Dr. Carnby. The Doctor's narrow features and sunken eyes gave him an almost predatory appearance as he stared at the incoherent man sitting across from the door of the padded room.

Mr. Willowes could have been anywhere between 24 and 40. His hair had started to grey, and his skin seemed creased with ageless wrinkles. He stared at Dr. Carnby with the wide, lifeless eyes of a doll.

The room appeared to have been obliterated. The walls had been torn open, most likely with Willowes bare hands. Blood streaked the walls in many places, and fragments of fingernail could be found here and there.

"Tsk..." clicked Dr. Carnby between his teeth, giving a small smile. An indulgent smile for his prized patient. "I suppose we'll have to move you to another cell, then. Perhaps this time without the padding. Surely you can't tear corrugated steel apart with your bare hands. Try though you might...Oh, Nurse! Bring our Assistant for Mr. Willowes."

Dr. Carnby turned from the dimly-lit cell and exited quickly, his white coat trailing behind. As he disappeared from view, a horrifying figure staggered into view.

Twitching and writhing, a faceless creature stepped through the darkened doorway. It wore the attire of a Nurse, although it's clothes were horribly stained with blood and even more unmentionable substances. It's smooth, crimson-streaked "face" seemed to writhe beneath it's own skin as a mouthless gurgle rose from somewhere within the creature.

Mr. Willowes began to scream as the Nurse-Thing approached, climbing to his feet from his position on the floor and turning away, trying to scrabble up a wall with his blood-caked hands.

The Nurse-Thing's heels clicked sharply on the bared flooring of the room, it's erratic movements resembling a spasmodic tremor as it made it's way toward the screaming man, reaching out with gloved hands.

Behind the Nurse, another figure waited. It's bulk filled the doorway, framed in what little light was available. It's flesh was a sickly white, with muscles and gnarled veins bulging across what was visible. It wore a butcher's smock, or perhaps an apron of some sort, which covered it's torso. It's hands were gloved in elbow-length surgical gloves, each stained as crimson as it's final decoration: A visciously pointed, sloping helmet of pitted, rusted metal with small vent slats in each side.

The Nurse took hold of Mr. Willowes shoulder and yanked him bodily from the wall, throwing him backwards and into the grasp of the Pyramid Helmeted creature. It took hold of him by the throat and turned to face Dr. Carnby.

In the darkened hallway of the decrepit Brookhaven Asylum, Dr. Carnby's smile widened, his unnaturally white teeth gleaming. Perched on his aqualine nose, his glasses gleamed in the opaque white light of a nearby window.

"Come now, Mr. Willowes...As a fellow Psychiatric Professional, you must understand...Our treatment is for your own good. How else are we supposed to cure you of your obvious dementia?" Said Carnby, his grin widening even further, like some hellish serpent, his teeth appearing sharper than ever.

Dr. Myron Willowes, 32, Internationally Famous Psychiatrist and Author of three very succesful books on the subjects of delusional behavior and "Waking Dreams" could do nothing more than scream wordlessly.

After all, this was his third month in the belly of The Beast. His third month in the Brookhaven Asylum. His third month in the nightmarish half-world that is Silent Hill.

"Now," chimed in Carnby, "what say we see about that new room? Perhaps we can even find you...A Roomate..."


	2. One: Willowes' Folly

One: Willowes' Folly.

Three Months Earlier...

For the past two years of his life, Dr. Myron Willowes has been living what can only be called the sweet life. His latest two books, The Mindscape and Dreams: Gateways To The Mind, were already considered best sellers and must-read literature for up and coming mental health professionals. His practice in Brahams had become a booming Psychiatric Hospital, where even famous patients came to rest and get their heads together. And now, he was preparing to begin work on his Fourth Book.

However, his Manager from Bucharest Publishing, Jared Welsh, was decidedly against his choice for research material. When Myron informed Jared that he intended to write a book on the effect locations can have on one's psychology, he seemed ecstatic.

And then Myron informed him that he was going to start with the negative aspects, and check out various "Haunted" locations. The first choice was Centralia, Pennsylvania, known for an unending Coal Fire beneath it's surface that resulted in the removal of all but eleven residents. However, Myron shot that concept down and immediately put forth a far more tragic location.

In the comfortable, well-furnished interior of Myron's sunny office, Jared sat across from him, staring at an open folder on the desk.

"Myron, have you lost your goddamn mind?" Jared asked bluntly. The short, bearded man raised a hand to run his fingers through his thinning hair. He was olive skinned, but had suddenly become very pale. "Half the lunatics in Brahams Mental Health Institution are connected to that place! Nobody's gone there and come back normal in thirty years!"

"I know," said Myron. "It's absolutely perfect. Clearly, something about this place unsettles people. I mean, look at it. The entire town was basically wiped out in a single night by fumes from the immense coal fires below it. Many of them burned, but the bulk died from the toxic fumes. I don't know if it's the perception or the place itself, but it's perfect material for my book!"

Jared stared, open-mouthed, trying to wrap his mind around the concept that anyone born and raised in Toluca County, West Virginia, could ever possibly desire to willingly go to Silent Hill. It was essentially a Ghost Town. Only Druggies, Lunatics and Freaks entered that town, and few ever came out. At least, not mentally intact.

"Myron, I'm your friend. I have to tell you: You're an idiot. You're one of the smartest men I know, but this is possibly the worst idea I've ever heard in my entire life. Silent Hill is a dead town. It's nowhere near safe. There are coke heads hiding out in those buildings! The Police won't even patrol there anymore!"

Myron stared at Jared for a long moment and smiled slightly. "Jared...Come on. You're my Manager. All I ask is a little faith. I'm a professional, you know. I know this is a perfect place for my research material."

Jared shook his head and sighed, standing up and heading for the door. He glanced over his shoulder at Myron before leaving.

"Myron, if you do this, you'll do it alone. I won't be part of your own suicide. That's what this is, Myron. Suicide. Silent Hill is not a place you want to go. You think you know what you're getting into, but you don't. You have no idea."

Myron sighed and started to respond, but Jared had already gone. Myron shrugged and decided that if this was the way it had to be, he'd find a new Manager after he finished with Silent Hill.

Outside, as Jared left the office building and made his way for his Crown Victoria, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was the last time he'd ever see Myron. At least, the Myron he knew.


	3. Two: Preperations

Two: Preparations.

The first step of Myron Journey consisted of stocking up on supplies. He intended to stay in Silent Hill, camping out of his Sports Utility Vehicle for three or four days, so he would need at least twenty-four bottles of water, toiletries such as paper and toothpaste, food to last and assorted other items.

His first stop was to go by Brahams Hunting Supply and follow a piece of advice he'd gotten from one of his associates in the local police force: If he had to go to Silent Hill, he should have at least one firearm to protect himself with. Especially if the stories of Drug Dealers were true.

Brahams was a small town, having only a few stores of note. However, one of them was the Hunting Supply Store, where one could purchase water purifiers, camping gear, firearms and rations in bulk, if need be.

As Myron entered, he felt...Out of place. He'd been target shooting before with his friends, but had never really considered purchasing a gun. The store was a bit claustrophobic, with too-tight aisles, mesh-covered racks on the walls, and a long, low display case full of various tools and items for outdoor survival.

Behind the counter, a balding man of about sixty was flipping through a sizable catalogue of ammunition and various modifications for firearms. What hair he had was pulled back into a messy ponytail. He had a stubbled chin and a thick, bushy moustache.

"Ah...Excuse me, Sir? I'm here to get a few things." Said Myron, holding up a hand to try and get the owner's attention. He realized how strange he must have appeared, a slender, rather unassuming man in a business suit entering a shop for Hunting and Camping supplies.

"Don't call me Sir. Name's Sam. Sam Dombrowski. What can I help you with, sport?" The Older man looked up from his catalogue, giving a crooked smile. He seemed nice enough to Myron. This helped him relax once more.

"Ah! I'm actually looking to stock up on supplies. Taking a trip, you see. I need a good, long-lasting Flashlight, maybe a raincoat. Some rations, something portable and easy to prepare, as well as a thermal blanket. Oh, and a firearm. A pistol will do." Myron ticked off the different items in his mind, knowing that the cost may be rather excessive for such a short trip. However, it was for the best.

"Right. We've got some Dry Cell flashlights on the shelves, and the coats are hanging next to those. I'll see what I can fish up for rations and a blanket. Then we'll discuss the gun." Mr. Dombrowski said, standing and throwing his catalogue down.

Myron turned his attention to finding his coat and flashlight, selecting a dull grey rain coat lined with a plastic seal to protect the contents of the pockets, and a small, clip-on flashlight which could be secured in one's breast pocket or to their collar. It would prove useful while taking notes.

He returned to the counter and found Mr. Dombrowski stacking up olive green black-stamped MRE packages, at least two dozen of them, and several large bags of beef jerky.

"Uh...Sam, I'm only going for a few days. That seems a bit much. I really only need nine of those packages." Said Myron, looking a bit perplexed by the overload of food.

"Listen, I always hear people say that. But the thing is, the unexpected can happen. Roads can flood, cars can break down. It's best to be prepared when you don't need it. It's a lot better than being unprepared when you do, right? Now, about the gun. What sort of Game are you going to be hunting?" As Mr. Dombrowski spoke, he began pulling holstered handguns from beneath the counter, laying them out in an array.

"I'm not really hunting," started Myron. "I'm going camping to research some information for a book, and I have been informed that I should take something for self protection."

"Where are you camping, then? Some places have bears to worry about out here." Said Mr. Dombrowski, seeming a bit confused as to why someone would take a gun for protection if it was such a short trip.

"Oh, I'm heading up to Silent Hill for a few days, and-" Before Myron could finish speaking, Mr. Dombrowski's demeanor had changed substantially. He began putting the smaller guns away and left only one out, a fairly large, black handgun with a shoulder holster.

"This is a Browning .45. Good stopping power. Reasonable clip capacity of ten on this particular make. No waiting period. Ammo's on the shelf. You pay now, and you get the hell out of my store. I don't want to see you here again, and I hope to God you reconsider." Said Mr. Dombrowski, his expression hardened into a mask of neutrality, although there was clearly something else there. Disappointment?

"No waiting period? But...Isn't that illegal, Sam? And why the sudden dislike? Did I say something wrong?" Myron couldn't understand what had happened. It couldn't have been the mention of the town. There had to be something else.

"That place is evil. That place took my son. It took my boy, after he left town, and he never came back. My Eddy is somewhere in there, but nobody could ever find him. I don't want you in here again. If you come back, you'll know why that place is empty. The sooner you leave my store, the sooner that town stops haunting me. Now pay up, and get out."

And there, in Mr. Dombrowski's claustrophobic store, Myron for the first time had a real doubt about his plan for the perfect book..


	4. Three: Entrance

Three: Entrance.

Driving through the Mountains of Toluca County at any time of day could be a beautiful experience, but especially so on a cool, clear night. The Moonlight played off the trees and scattered mountain streams, glimmering.

A low mist covered the hill-strewn valleys and steep mountainsides around the roadway, the asphalt being little more than a thin strip of black snaking through endless wilderness.

On this band of black, a grey SUV made steady progress southward, toward the Brahams/Silent Hill cutoff. Only one road still lead to Silent Hill, as the Government had the rest bombed with demolition charges to prevent the public from entering the dead town.

The remaining road had long ago been blocked by a tall, razor-wire topped fence shortly before a small wooden bridge. Teenagers, Drug-Addicts and those with something to hide always got inside, though. The fence wouldn't stop someone who was determined.

Myron Willowes was certainly determined. He took the Brahams/Silent Hill cutoff sharply, his headlights burning a path through the darkened mountain roadway. He had, up until a few minutes prior, been listening to a weather report. However, as he had neared the cutoff, he had begun to pick up an irritating amount of static.

He thought he had turned the radio off, but as he neared Silent Hill, the static began again. Myron stared at his Satellite Radio and tapped the various buttons, trying to turn it off, or at least turn it down. After a few moments of the growing whine, he finally grabbed hold of the Radio itself and yanked it out of it's frame, tossing it in the back seat. Whether or not it had been on before, it certainly wouldn't make any noise without power.

Soon enough, Myron found the links of the chain fencing illuminated in his headlights. His SUV came to a halt just short of the barrier, Myron adjusting his glasses to better examine the fence. Thin, locked with a thick chain and a heavy padlock.

Myron considered his options momentarily. He could squeeze between the fence and the lock, if he left his supplies. He could turn around and go home. Or he could try something different.

He slid the vehicle into reverse and backed away from the fence, shifting in his seat and staring through the barrier. He could make out the bridge to Silent Hill beyond, wet with a recent rain. It spanned a small stream, and lead to a curved road ahead.

Without a second thought, Myron popped the car back into drive and hammered his foot down onto the accelerator. The SUV roared forward, lurching momentarily as it barreled the short distance down the road to the fence.

With a loud shriek of metal on metal the SUV punched through the fence, the lock and chains failing to stop the fury of a multi-ton speeding vehicle just as it had failed to stop the curious and guilty from entering the town.

Myron pondered momentarily whether or not he would be arrested for this, but pushed that thought aside as he slowed the SUV and continued onward, following the snaking road onward for what seemed like twenty minutes. The cliff face to his left had begun to grow steeper, rockier. Previously it had harbored plants, low shrubbery and trees, but now it seemed to have become little more than rock and dirt.

A short time later, he came to a final bridge across a Canyon. Ahead, he could make out the first sign: Welcome To Silent Hill. On his left, an old junkyard of some sort seemed to have been left in mid-operation. Wrecked cars lined the cliff face there, behind a rusted chain length fence.

He could see nothing beyond the sign, as the entire region seemed to be shrouded rather heavily in a thick, white fog. He had heard that Silent Hill was usually at least hazy, or misty, but this was surprising. Almost..Ominous.

He reduced speed to a coast, his SUV entering the fog like a submarine sinking into ocean waves. Shortly thereafter, it's engine seemed to sputter, choke and then stall. Myron sat in the silence of his darkened SUV and thought for a long moment how long the walk back to Brahams was from here.

"Well," Said Myron, "At least I don't plan on leaving just yet."


	5. Four: The Walk

Four: The Walk.

Myron climbed out of his SUV and gave a sigh, squinting into the fog. It was extremely bright, to his surprise. Undoubtedly the moonlight playing off the vapor. He adjusted his new coat and moved around to the rear of his vehicle, opening the door and digging out his backpack. It was rather heavy, due to the various supplies he had packed, but was otherwise reasonable.

He had the .45 tucked neatly beneath his right arm over the coat, more as a visual warning than anything else, and he had the light clipped into his breast pocket. He tugged the pack on and adjusted it's straps before closing and locking his vehicle. It was time to start jogging.

He dug through his coat pockets for a few short moments before finding a neatly folded, plastic-wrapped package. Several maps, brochures and information sheets he had obtained from the Brahams Historical Society and Archive. He had come well prepared, to be sure.

He seemed to currently be on Nathan Avenue, which lead directly in front of Toluca Lake, a natural basin formed between the cliff faces. It was an exceptionally large lake, and even had a Tourist Attraction on the farthest side. However, the Amusement Park had long ago been abandoned, just as the town had.

If he continued to follow Nathan Avenue, Myron had confirmed that he would soon reach a Bowling Alley. He figured that if he could get inside, it would be a perfect base of operations to begin exploring the town. He would make his first observational notes when he reached his destination.

He began his steady march through the fog, staring into the unending white distance. He couldn't help but feel that perhaps the fog had been the reason for so many unexplained occurences. Surely some individuals could go stir crazy trapped in the white depths.

From somewhere ahead, he heard something like footsteps. Rapid, erratic, echoing oddly through the dense vaporous cloud. Myron stopped and squinted, trying to see who it was. Perhaps one of the incredibly sporadic police border patrols for the town. He hoped not, as that could only end in being escorted from town. And with an unlicensed firearm, no less.

Instead of a Police Officer, a ragged-looking man came running by. His hair was lanky and dirty, and his skin was smudged with what appeared to be soot. He was wild-eyed and breathing painfully, ragged gasps punctuated by blubbering cries.

Myron almost reached out, to stop the man, but instead took a step back. The man kept running, a scream piercing the fog as he disappeared from view, his footsteps still echoing as he made a break for the bridge.

"What the...I guess they weren't kidding about the drug addicts. Wonder what kind of hallucination he was experiencing that would bring about such a violent reaction?" Myron didn't realize it, but he was talking to himself. He had never done this before.

Myron turned his attention back to the road and continued on. Somewhere along the way, he passed an overturned motorcycle. It was rusty and dented, but appeared to be a relatively new make. It had probably only been there a year, if that long. On the side, he could make out a Brahams Police Department logo.

He would use that motorcycle as a landmark, should he get lost on the way back. Ahead, through the fog, Myron could make out a railing bordering the road. And beyond the railing, on the right side, several long, low rooftops. To his left, he could see a steep enbankment leading away from the asphalt and down to a rocky shoreline.

The Fog seemed to cling to everything, draping the lake's surface like a veil. An upcoming bluff overlooking the water also held a structure. It's sign identified it as the Silent Hill Historical Society. According to Myron's map, this was shortly before the Bowling Alley. He was making good time, at least in his mind.

He stopped momentarily to check his watch, examining it in the dim white of Silent Hill's atmosphere, only to find that it had stopped entirely. It's hands had frozen somewhere around midnight, when he had reached the Brahams/Silent Hill cutoff.

"Dammit! This is a brand new watch!" He fumed, tapping the crystal face and then groaning. A new $700 swiss watch had stopped dead. It may have been all the moisture in the air, ruining the inner workings.

"Well, it could be worse. My Flashlight still works." Myron resigned himself to needing a new watch, and continued on toward his destination:Pete's Bowl-O-Rama.


	6. Five: First Impressions

Five: First Impressions.

Myron had reached Pete's Bowl-O-Rama five minutes earlier than he had anticipated. However, he had still neglected to go inside. For the time being, he had decided to seat himself on the steps out front, soaking in the atmosphere of Silent Hill.

In his right hand, he had a Tape Recorder he had brought, so that he might take audio-notes on his thoughts. It had been running for several seconds, recording nothing but dead silence. Myron finally began to speak.

"This is Dr. Myron Willowes, in Silent Hill. These notes will likely be released with the Audio Book of my upcoming project, so it is important that I keep track. I am currently sitting in front of an abandoned Bowling Alley." Myron began, going through the basic formalities for those who would handle the audio book transcription. This would work as a foreword to the first chapter.

"My first impression of Silent Hill is...Well, desolation. This city..Erm..Excuse me, this town, as it's far too small to be considered much more, is dead. It's like a nightscape on the moon, the rustic structures echoing the silence of a dead land. It's unsettling. My mind keeps playing tricks on me, here.

I keep imagining that I see things, or hear things in the fog. I suspect I may be hearing the average scavengers of a decrepit location, such as rodents. Or perhaps the rumored drug addicts and homeless that hide here.

Psychologically speaking, Silent Hill is a dead zone. I imagine some people go over the edge simply due to the lack of stimulus. The constant fog may also influence one's psychological status, as I imagine it has the same effect as a white out during the winter. I, myself, already feel rather uncomfortable here. A sense of constant unease haunts me here, and I can't figure out why."

Myron's monologue tapered off as he stared into the whiteness. The Lake and a narrow stretch of park sat only a few yards away, across the street from the bowling alley, and yet somehow it remained unseen. He had thought the fog would thin out at least partially, but it instead seemed to press ever closer.

"I think that's enough recording for now. Tape label should read Research Log 001. Dr.Myron Willowes, end recording." And Myron did just that, turning the recorder off and putting it away. It was time to get inside and make himself at home.

He stood up and stretched, rubbing his eyes for a moment. The haze had begun to hurt his eyes. He turned to face the mesh-covered doors to the abandoned Pete's Bowl-O-Rama. He leaned close to examine the lock on the sliding gate, and then removed his backpack.

He unzipped the bag and dug through it's contents, seeking out a useful multi-tool. The device resembled a pair of pliers, or perhaps a misshapen wrench with various unfolding attachments. He sorted through the various tools and selected a thick, angled pry bar. The tool itself was nearly a foot long, so with a good amount of force he could easily dislodge the rusted lock.

He situated himself to the right of the door and slipped the bar between the lock's base and the curved bar. He placed both hands on the tool and pushed forward sharply, a loud grunt cut off by a shriek of metal on metal.

The lock popped free and fell to the ground with a clank, and Myron chuckled with satisfaction. Sometimes, it paid to spend the extra seventy or eighty dollars at the Sharper Image for something. He put his tool away and proceeded to push the fence aside. To his relief, the doors themselves were unlocked.

He gathered his Backpack up and pushed open the doors, stepping into the dusty, dimly lit interior of the bowling alley. He reached up and clicked the flashlight on, grimacing at what he found.

The interior had fallen into shambles. Empty pizza boxes littered the floor, and the seats were thoroughly ruined. They seemed to have been shredded. Myron wondered momentarily if they had just left the place as it had been when the few survivors had abandoned Silent Hill, or if someone had been squatting here previously. And if so, where were they getting Pizza?

Myron shrugged this off and swept a table clean of debris. He found the one seat that seemed to be intact, and opted to make that his bed for the next few days. He set his bag down and unzipped every compartment, fishing out the assorted food stuffs, bottles of water and supplies he would need, arraying them on the table.

He dug out a final item he had invested in, just in case: An iron Pull-type lock, which basically resembled a heavy chain shrouded in a rubber sleeve with a key lock. He returned to the opened fence at the door and tugged it shut, slipping the pull-lock into place and giving it a tug. Once it was secured, Myron placed his hands on his hips and examined his surroundings.

"Well...Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home..."


	7. Six: The Red Aray

Six: The Red Array.

Myron had finished setting up his makeshift encampment and checking his fortifications by three A.M., and felt that his preparations would suffice. It seemed as good a time as any to rest, because he would be spending the bulk of the next day simply walking the streets of Silent Hill.

As Myron sprawled out across his surrogate bed, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of influence the town might have on his mind. Even as he slipped into a dreamless sleep, Myron's mind refused to leave the subject.

Some hours later, around nine in the morning by Myron's judgement, he awoke to find the same eerie whiteness filtering in through the few unboarded windows in the bowling alley. His back was slightly tweaked from resting on his awkward bed, but otherwise he felt relatively refreshed.

"How odd.." Myron said, staring at the locked front doors. The fog had neither lifted, nor thinned, since he had fallen into slumber. He would have thought that it would at least be lighter thanks to the rays of the morning sun. Myron decided that it was of no real importance, and set about the business of preparing for his journey into the town proper.

He collected his maps, his guides, a few packets of jerky, a meal and several bottles of water. He felt he may need the flashlight, and was sure he should never forget his pistol. It may be foolish of him to feel unease in a town as quiet and dead as Silent Hill, but he would feel a bit safer having his sidearm at hand.

It was some fifteen minutes later, after he had planned his path for the day, that he had made his way out into the fog. He checked his position as he reached the first available intersection, and turned to the right, down Caroll Street.

The streets were devoid of sound or movement, save for his own footsteps. Myron knew from a partial directory that he had obtained that the Heaven's Night Gentleman's Club would be to his right as he headed south on Caroll. After he passed that, he could take a left and continue east into Old Silent Hill.

Myron took the time to stop by any Newspaper Boxes along the road, examining the headlines. They all seemed to be from the exact same day, and really held very little interesting news. He considered momentarily whether or not he should break open one of the machines and take a paper for posterity, but decided against it. It would likely just fall apart, anyway.

The walk down Caroll was uneventful, even a bit boring. Somehow, Myron had felt sure that he would experience some immediate revelation about the nature of Silent Hill, that he would understand it's influence on those who entered it's borders.

He came to the next Intersection, left onto Rendell, and stopped. Something...Strange seemed to be visible through the fog. The road surface at the center of Rendell seemed to have been littered with something red.

Myron approached and squinted through the haze, examining the red objects spread evenly across the road. They formed a circle of thirteen, and each object was rectangular. They were the color of rust, and seemed to have been pegged to the street with heavy, rusted bolts.

Paper. The thirteen items forming a circle in the street were, in fact, pieces of strangely colored paper. They were blank, devoid of markings or images, and actually appeared to be sodden with some liquid. He grimaced for a moment and then reached out, running a finger over the surface of the nearest piece.

It felt vaguely sticky and cold, and the contact with it seemed to bring on an overwhelming sense of nausea. He withdrew his hand suddenly and grimaced, straightening up once more and stepping around the makeshift symbol.

"Well, someone's got a warped artistic vision...It doesn't even mean anything." Myron decided that it would be as good a time as any to get his Cell phone out and take a picture. His Motorolla Phone had not worked since he had entered Silent Hill, but hopefully his camera would still function. Sure enough, he found that it did, indeed, still allow him to take digital photos.

He lined up the odd array in his viewfinder and clicked a pair of photographs, smiling to himself. If he could get it by the Publisher, he could use this for a cover. Or, at the very least, an insert or promotional.

He examined the thirteen red pages for another few moments before dismissing them and continuing on his way. He had more exploring to do, and restored faith that he'd discover far more interesting sights in Silent Hill.


	8. Seven: Monson Street

Seven: Monson Street.

Myron's journey continued down Rendell, with little or no change in his situation. The ever-present fog seemed to compress Myron's body, pressing against his skin like a chilled blanket.

He stared into the smoke and filth tinted windows of the stores he passed, examining groups of half-naked and damaged mannequins. For some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that he spied movement amongst the figures, as if the black smudges coating the glass bestowed some unnatural life on the immobile figures.

Aside from the storefronts filled with mannequins, several windows had been shattered. They had exploded outward in some cases, and beyond them it seemed the stores had been gutted by fires. Perhaps during the initital burning, these stores had been destroyed.

Soon enough, Myron reached the next intersection. He intended to make a rectangular path, working upward and around, back to his camp. On the corner to his left, an old burger joint could be found. The Burger Queen, a popular chain in the region, but usually ended shot down by a larger chain nationwide.

To his right, a row of old, abandoned boutiques loomed over the street, their soot-stained windows covered with anti-theft mesh, and their doors heavily barred. Again, one seemed to have been gutted by a raging fire, leaving it's windows shattered and empty, like hollow eyes staring out onto the fog-shrouded world.

Myron opted to turn left, heading north onto Monson Street. He would begin his loop back around toward his encampment early, as the fog had begun to wear on his energy. The cold sapped his strength, and made him almost queasy.

Monson seemed to be mostly residential, lined with small apartments, scattered houses of undetermined age, and a few small, comfortable shops here and there. A Laundry, a Bakery, a Toy Store. All abandoned, all empty and dead. It disturbed Myron that, since his arrival, he had seen only one of the supposed "Drug Addicts" that infested the town.

Certainly, the strange red paper had been evidence of someone doing SOMETHING in the town, but otherwise Myron had felt completely alone. Well, physically alone. He couldn't quite shake the instinctual, almost primal sense that he was being watched.

Again, he came to an intersection and halted. According to his map, the turn he wanted was further north, the next available left. On his right, at the corner, stood the Blue Creek Apartment Building, one of the largest apartment buildings in the Old Part of Silent Hill.

According to his information, it had been sparsely occupied before the town was abandoned, and was likely already falling into disrepair. From the rusted fence enclosing the structure, the boarded windows and the padlocked metal door he could see, it certainly seemed as if that were the case.

Myron started past the apartment building when something caught his eye. Something white, sitting on a table in what passed for the building's lawn. The area was mostly a patch of dirt with a sidewalk and patches of ratty grass, with an old picnic table at it's center.

Myron squinted through the haze and approached the fence, almost pressing his face against the mesh to try and make out what had caught his attention. And then he realized what it was: A doll. A Child's doll, made of ragged cloth and buttons for eyes. From the color, it must've been made from sheets, or a pillow case.

Myron retrieved his phone once more and stepped back, placing the doll squarely in frame and taking a digital photo. Another great promotional image, to be sure. At this rate, he might be able to have an entire chapter of the book devoted to the imagery of "Ghost Towns"...


	9. Eight: Dead End

Eight: Dead End.

Myron's path came to an abrupt stop just south of the Katz Street Intersection. His map showed that if he could continue north, he would reach another Intersection back onto Nathan Avenue. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be happening.

The road had, quite literally, vanished. The earth had fallen away, or sunken into itself. The jagged, twisted concrete and metal edge of the roadway emptied into nothing but a chasm of fog. From his position, Myron couldn't see the other side. On either side of the road, the buildings that had once stood securely atop their foundations teetered precariously over the rim.

Myron had heard the stories that the fires beneath Silent Hill had undoubtedly caused some structural damage over time, but he could have never anticipated an entire road disappearing into the earth.

To Myron, it seemed unlikely that any sort of subterranean fire could have done such damage, as there were no indications of neither smoke nor flame. In fact, if anything, the damage seemed recent, as if some unimaginable tremor had hollowed the earth out beneath the road.

"Well...Fuck." Grumbled Myron, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Isn't this just dandy?"

"You shouldn't talk to yourself." chimed a voice somewhere behind the doctor.

Myron nearly jumped out of his skin, yelping in surprise and whirling around with alarming speed. He almost went for the gun he had tucked away, but stopped himself. More out of confusion than true coherent thought.

"And you should also watch your mouth. That's not very fucking polite, y'know." The voice had come from an unexpected source: A child. A little girl, to be precise, in what appeared to be a white lace dress with a red neck tie of some sort.

The girl had long, stringy black hair and skin as pale as freshly fallen snow. Her lips were an unusually bright ruby red, and she seemed to be barefoot. Under one arm, she carried a dirt-encrusted stuffed rabbit doll.

All together, she looked like a normal enough child, if a bit pale and unkempt. Save, that is, for a large bloody swatch across her stomach. It was difficult to tell if she'd been injured, or if she was merely smeared with crimson.

"Who...Who are you? What're you doing in a place like this?" Myron said, sidestepping around the girl. He didn't know why, but he felt...Suspicious...around her. "And are you injured? Is that your blood?"

The Girl tilted her head and stared at Myron, crossing her arms behind her back. An inquisitive pose, of course. "I don't see how that's any of your business. But I can answer your first question. Y'know, for a Shrink, you sure look funny."

Myron stopped and stared at the girl in silence for a long moment. How could she know anything about him? It didn't seem possible.

"You're not the first Psychiatrist or Psychologist to come through here, you know. We've had several. We're always getting unbelievers and skeptics. It's actually kind of funny..." The girl began to giggle wickedly, tipping back and forth from one foot to the other, as if excited.

"How do you know me?" Myron asked. He was feeling more and more uncomfortable. That sense of being watched from somewhere beyond sight had come back, and seemed to grow stronger.

"Oh, we know you very well here. We like to keep an eye on those with a vested interest in our little town. You're Dr. Myron Willowes, a succesful Author and practitioner of the Psychiatric sciences. You're once married, once widowed, and have no living family. You enjoy a recreational drug habit and you're also a borderline alcoholic." The girl continued to speak, sing-songing her way through every aspect of Myron's life, both professional and personal.

"Who the hell are you, kid?" Myron said, now feeling VERY much like going for his gun and heading back to his base camp.

"Me?" The girl chirped, giving an abnormally wide, toothy grin. "Why, I'm just a little girl from around here. They call me many things, but you can call me Christabella..."


End file.
